Photography as an art form.
Is photography an art form? That can be debated, but I’m going to accept that most photography, perhaps with the notable exception of news journalism, is a form of art in the same league as painting, sculpture, collage, wood-carving, pottery, neon, jewelry-making, glass-blowing, tattoo-making, and others.

If we accept most photography as an art form, what distinguishes it from the other forms of art? One unique aspect of photography lies in its root words: photo = light, and graphy = writing; photography is writing with light. Light affects a photo-sensitive material or device (usually film or sensor), and this then forms an image (chemically on film and digitally on an electronic recording device and eventually on a computer screen). Both of these are often in turn translated to paper for easier viewing.

Another distinguishing aspect of photography is that it captures a moment, unlike any of the other art forms that don’t concern themselves with a specific moment in time. It is this aspect of photography that the general public understands and appreciates. It’s seen in photographs of family gatherings, children and students in school groups and annual yearbooks, formal portraits, wedding albums, and similar life events and markings of the passage of time. Painting may capture these events as well, but paintings don’t pretend to be an immediate depiction of a specific moment as does a photograph.

A final distinguishing aspect of photography is that, at least initially, it captures a moment in time in a realistic way. The object in front of the film or sensor reflects photons back to the photo-capturing device (nearly always a camera) in a manner that the initial image is a relatively true representation of that object (“relatively” because many things can distort the photons along their path to the film or sensor, and different films can react in different manners to these photons). Film and sensors do have limitations, in that they often can’t capture a broad range of light, and often the range of light being reflected back to the camera is beyond the capabilities of the film or sensor to record. In addition, sometimes light may fall on the film/sensor for several seconds, minutes, or even hours. When the exposure to light is extended in time, events such as movement of the subject are recorded over that period of time. The blur of a speeding car, the silky smoothness of a waterfall, and trails of stars across several hours of a nighttime sky are good examples of a moment that is long enough for the object being recorded to change during that “moment.” Despite these exceptions, photography can be distinguished from other art forms by its relatively realistic initial depiction of whatever was photographed. The exceptions that can be identified don’t wholly negate this particular characteristic of photography.

The decisive moment.
Henri Cartier-Bresson is famous for his photographs that capture the “decisive moment,” that moment when random actions intersect in a single instant to make a photograph that is aesthetically appealing, or that best expresses an emotion, or that embodies the spirit of the place or time. It’s the moment when a scene is at its photographic best, when the light is “just right” and when the compositional elements are “just right.” Cartier-Bresson said that photography is not like painting. He said there is a creative fraction of a second when you are taking a picture — your eye must see a composition or an expression that life itself offers you, and you must know with intuition when to click the camera. That is the moment the photographer is creative. Cartier-Bresson said, “Oop! The Moment! Once you miss it, it is gone forever.”

While the decisive moment is often applied to people and the world involving humans, it can be applied to nature and landscape photography as well. Jack Dykinga, a notable large-format landscape photographer, has said that landscape sometimes is all about the decisive moment. It occurs when the light is at the right angle and intensity, when the clouds and wind are just right, and when the components of the environment are perfectly aligned or arranged aesthetically or as the archetypical representative of the subject being photographed.

Sometimes a capture of the decisive moment is a matter of luck, and other times it is the result of careful planning: knowing the season, consulting tide or lunar calendars, knowing where the sun will be at a particular time, looking at the weather forecast, and knowing the landscape from one or many previous visits to a place. Whether by luck or careful planning, it’s a matter of being in the right place at the right time. I’ve often said that the key to getting a great photo is a matter of being there.

The death of the decisive moment.
The application of digital manipulation by some photographers is rendering the concept of the “decisive moment” obsolete. No longer do these photographers have to be at the right time and the right place. No longer does the light have to be “just right” or the compositional elements “just right.” No longer is careful planning necessary. No longer do natural objects such as the sun, moon, and clouds have to be in alignment at a decisive moment. Instead, any of the elements that contribute to a decisive moment can be created or altered to be a facsimile of the natural decisive moment.

Rather than directly experiencing the decisive moment with our eyes, we can imagine the decisive moment in our creative minds and use digital software to bring that imagination to life in an image that began with a camera but which owes its existence largely to a computer.

Concerns.
“But is it real?” That’s one of the first and most frequent questions I hear from the general public at art shows or other venues where photography is being displayed. In other words, the public is asking whether the beauty and uniqueness in the photograph is something that was seen and captured with the camera in a decisive moment, or rather if it is something that was created / enhanced with a computer.

Some photographers who engage in extensive digital manipulation argue they are producing art, their altered photographs are artistic expressions, and as such their photographic work is above the question of manipulation.

But as I’ve stated, photography is connected to reality in a way that other forms of art are not. Photography captures the moment, and its initial capture is an authentic representation of that moment.

For me personally, the uncertainties I experienced and medical treatments I received for cancer in the 1970s have made it impossible (thankfully) for me to take the beauty of the natural world for granted. Trying to capture the essence of a natural place through photography enhances my experience of being there. For me personally, the experience comes first, the photography comes second. A photograph must capture and represent the experience: that series of decisive moments I encounter when I’m on the trail, in the forest, walking through the desert, floating down the river, or sitting on the top of a mountain watching the sun and moon come and go.

However, it does not require a life-threatening illness to acquire an appreciation for experiences in the natural world and to value photography as a means of capturing decisive moments. Many landscape photographers share these values, as evidenced by their work and their words.

Consequences of digital manipulation.
Digital manipulation can be done to a degree and in a manner that makes the decisive moment irrelevant and that avoids the experience entirely. Those are two separate issues, and both are important in the discussion of digital manipulation of photographs.

When significant elements are not captured in a decisive moment but instead are created via computer software, the moment didn’t occur. The planning wasn’t necessary. The luck of being in the right place at the right time is immaterial. The authentic representation of the natural world is unimportant. It is these considerations that, in my mind, make the manipulated photograph less than the un-manipulated photograph, even if both photographs look identical. In other words, the process is just as important as the outcome. Whether the photograph “works” is not enough; the process of obtaining the photograph is part of that photograph.

I’ve been trying for more than five years to capture a nearly full-moon rising above Mount Rainier. From my particular vantage point, that happens only twice each year. Given western Washington’s notorious cloud cover in the spring and fall when these alignments of the moon and mountain occur, I have not yet been successful (although I came close once). However, I could create this photo digitally. I could take a photo of the mountain on a relatively clear evening just as the sun is setting, and then capture the moon on a different evening as it is rising above the horizon. I could then paste the moon into the photo of the mountain, and if I’m sufficiently skillful with my manipulation software, a viewer would have a very difficult task of detecting the composite photo.

However, in my mind, and in the minds of many other photographers as well as non-photographers, there is a difference between the two photos. One is an authentic capture of a decisive moment, while the other is not. One is the result of careful planning, while the other is not. One is the result of good fortune, while the other is not. One is the result of being at the right place at the right time, while the other is not.

Of great importance to me is the fact that one is the outcome of a significant experience in the natural world, while the other is not. One photo occurred as I was witnessing a rare event of a full moon rising above Mount Rainier on a cloudless evening, while the other photo occurred as I was sitting in front of a computer. That the photo “works” (i.e., is aesthetically pleasing, dramatic, strikingly beautiful, or has a “wow” factor) is not enough, or at least it’s not the whole story. A photo that was captured through the pain and long process often required for a wonderful photo will always, in my mind, be superior to the “same” photo (“same” being defined as looking similar on paper or the computer screen) that was created through digital manipulation. Creating a photograph is not the same as capturing a photograph.

At a point that’s sometimes hard to define, a manipulated photograph enters the realm of digital alterations and digital art. Digital alterations can be an interesting, challenging, and thought-provoking aspect of photography; I fully support it as a relatively new art form. While the division between the two realms is difficult to define, and despite the fact that much past and current landscape photography involves manipulation to a degree, I contend there is a difference between landscape photography and digital alterations. When the two are treated as equal via the attitude that art is art and all photography is simply artistic expression, then manipulated photography degrades the traditional realm of landscape photography. We know degradation is happening when the first question asked regarding an outstanding landscape photograph by members of the general public at a photography exhibit is, “Is it real?”

The only reason this question is asked is because we all know that some photographs were largely created in a computer, while other photographs were captured while experiencing a decisive moment in nature. In the minds of many, this is a significant difference.

On being different through digital manipulation.
I don’t understand how one can take a relatively mundane, everyday shot of a landscape and jazz it up by adding a single, odd color to the sky (say, purple or green), thereby creating something very unusual, and suddenly that mundane photo becomes a striking, outstanding, or exceptional manipulated photo that receives high praise from some viewers. Similarly, photographs of intertidal rocks covered with bright, neon-green algae on the shadow side of a sun that is resting on the horizon often receive praises of “great color!” It’s as if we have become jaded with “regular” landscape photography, as if the real world has become so common that it’s boring, and only by making this “regular” landscape something that it isn’t can we once again become interested in it.

I think that’s sad. There are many aesthetically interesting views of nature and natural objects as they really exist. Sometimes it’s a challenge to find them and to frame them in an interesting way, but that’s one of the joys of photography. Taking a shortcut by simply creating something that doesn’t really exist and has therefore not been seen before and letting that be the criteria by which to judge the value of an image misses, in my opinion, the point and value of landscape photography.

Being different is not the same as being good, despite what may be a person’s jaded interest in the natural world. Really good landscape photography captures the decisive moment…. that moment when composition, light, and subject all come together. It’s difficult, and it’s rare. Do we really think we can create decisive moments at will simply by pushing software slider? In my opinion, all we end up with is a caricature of a landscape.

Finding the balance.
Nearly all digital photographs require further processing. If they were captured as jpegs, then the camera has already done a lot of the processing. If they were captured as RAW files, then processing and sharpening are required with software.

Knowing where to draw the line regarding the degree of processing is terribly difficult, especially if a photographer is posting a photo for public viewing and feedback. We seem to have the notion that if a little bit is good, then more will be even that much better. And when “more” is so easy to do (just push a slider, or just enter a new number in the saturation level), it’s even more tempting to apply.

But just because we can doesn’t mean that we should. Finding the balance in digital processing when so much is so easy is key in this new age of using computers in the workflow of bringing information contained in a camera’s sensor or in a scanned image to a printed photograph.

New language is needed.
Often, our language does not keep pace with the way in which our culture and technology change. This has happened in photography. What we need now is a new or expanded concept regarding photography. We simply have not incorporated into our language appropriate concepts that relate to what we see in photographs that have come into being by very different processes. Digital manipulation offers vastly more and different capabilities than traditional darkroom manipulation. This means that digital processing cannot be characterized merely as the “digital darkroom,” implying that digital manipulation is no different than what photographers in previous decades did in their chemically based darkrooms.

What is being produced when a photograph is significantly manipulated is not a photograph but rather digital art or computer art. It may have started with a regular photograph, but at some point it enters a very new realm, one that is so new that there hasn’t yet developed commonly accepted language and standards. However, the lack of language and standards does not prevent me from recognizing that a photograph that relies primarily on a computer for its existence is not the same as a photograph that relies primarily on a camera for its existence.

Photography is an old word being used to describe something new. It isn’t the right word for this new, computer-based process, and we have not found the right words to define and describe it. This is where much of the controversy regarding digital manipulation arises. The word “photography” now means something different to different people. If we had a new language, one that incorporates this new form of photography and this new form of art, much of the current controversy would disappear. But the evolution of new language can be a difficult process, especially when technological change in photography has been rapid and when some of these changes can minimally be likened to traditional darkroom practices of the past (dodging, burning, alteration of tones, changing development routines, etc.).

It’s also difficult to develop a new language when many photographers don’t see a need for a new language. For those photographers, all that matters is the outcome, or whether the image “works.” To them, the concept of the decisive moment is irrelevant, and the idea of experiencing that which is photographed is unimportant. When these photographers remark on a manipulated photograph, a photograph that has come into being through the computer, by saying “nice shot,” they are in error. They really should be saying, “Nice computer skills,” or, at the very least, “Nice shot and nice computer skills.” However, that language and that attitude have not yet developed, and the question, “Is it real?” continues to be asked. As a result, traditional landscape photography based on capturing decisive moments is suffering from these false look-alikes of digitally manipulated images because they can’t be trusted to be real representation of an actual experience.

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“A photograph is not created by a photographer. What he does is just to open a little window and capture it. The world then writes itself on the film. The act of the photographer is closer to reading than it is to writing. They are the readers of the world.”
Ferdinando Scianna, Magnum photographer

Mother Nature spent a lot of time and effort making the Columbia River Gorge so photographers could come away with some great photographs. Volcanic eruptions over millions of years ago created lava flows several miles thick in this area. During the Ice Age some 15,000 years ago, a huge ice dam 2500 feet high blocked the Clark Fork River at present-day Lake Pend Oreille, creating ancient Lake Missoula that backed up all the way to — you guessed it — modern-day Missoula, Montana. This ice dam broke and created a flood that would give FEMA managers nightmares. Imagine a wall of water up to 500 feet tall and moving up to 80 miles per hour, draining a lake that was up to 2000 feet deep and covering 3000 square miles, creating a flow that was 10 times the combined flow of all of the rivers in the world. Brownie, you’re doing a heck of a job! Imagine this happening not just once, but perhaps a hundred times, each time draining Lake Missoula within a week. These repeated floods helped shape the present-day Columbia River Gorge.

If you want to read more about the Ice Age floods and the remarkable geologist, J. Harlan Bretz, who for 30 years pieced together the puzzle and won his argument against the scientific establishment of his time regarding the origins of the geological features created by the floods in Washington and Oregon, I recommend three books: “Bretz’s Flood: The Remarkable Story of a Rebel Geologist and the World’s Greatest Flood,” by John Soennichsen; “On the Trail of the Ice Age Floods,” by Bruce Bjornstad; and “Cataclysms on the Columbia,” by John Allen and Marjorie Burns.

I’ve sampled only a small portion of the Columbia River Gorge on several excursions. I’ve been guided on my hikes by the book, “Hiking the Columbia River Gorge” by Russ Schneider. I’ve begun my visits with a trip to the top of Larch Mountain, located east of Corbett off exit 17 from I-84. I’ve been to Larch Mountain twice, but I have yet to take a single photo from the overlook. I was there for the first time on a Friday night when several groups of teenagers were evidently recovering from the tremendous pressures of high school. After enduring their partying long into the night, I decided to take my camper further down the road for a few hours of sleep. I was there again on Veterans’ Day (2010), but there was snow at the top with many warning signs about weather, it was 37 degrees at 4:00 p.m., and wet weather was heading in from the Pacific. I didn’t have enough supplies in the camper to last the winter, so again I elected to spend the night further down the hill. “They say” the view is tremendous, and one photographer I met on photo.net said it was his favorite place for photography. Some day I’ll make it.

A good place for the first photos is from the Women’s Forum Overlook; check out this site for locations.  The quality of photos from here is entirely dependent on the weather, because that’s basically what’s being photographed: weather. At the beginning of the day, one might witness a beautiful sunrise, or it may be socked in with fog. I got a taste of the former on a hazy day when I could see Vista House and Beacon Rock in the far background:

I experienced the latter during my last trip when extensive fog and low clouds blanketed the gorge:

From the Women’s Forum viewpoint, the fog ebbed and flowed, raised and lowered, creating different compositions as it changed. I spent nearly two hours photographing distant landforms as well as nearby trees as the influence of the fog changed:

From the Vista House itself, one can get a similar view from a somewhat lower elevation. On a previous trip, I was able to witness the sunrise:

My photography in the Columbia Gorge has been limited to the autumn. The best times for fall color are at the end of October and the beginning of November. The bigleaf maples and tall overstory are the first to turn color, followed by the understory of vine maple and other deciduous shrubs. My calendar notes say the autumn color was excellent on 10/28/06 but past its peak on 10/28/07; it depends on the year.

Continuing on the Columbia Gorge Scenic Highway as it descends to the bottom, the first falls one encounters is Latourell Falls, a short hike from the roadway. I chose to photograph the falls through the limbs of the trees, trying a horizontal as well as vertical aspect; which is best is in the eye of the beholder, although I can make an aesthetic argument for either:

Further down the road is Wahkeena Falls. The stream flows under the highway, so photographs up toward the falls are possible from the low bridge. I chose two focal lengths: a 24mm (with Canon’s tilt/shift lens) and a slightly longer 43mm on Canon’s 24-70mm zoom:

Continuing on, Bridal Veil Falls is a short hike down, but involving some concrete stairs on the way. A bridge crosses the stream, and here photos can be gotten of the stream and the point of entry of the falls (coming in on the right), marked by a very large, fern-covered boulder. A short distance further the trail ends at a viewing platform that looks straight on at the falls; I chose to use a young maple to frame the falls:

The most famous and popular of the waterfalls in the Columbia Gorge is Multnomah Falls. Due to the crowds, I usually don’t stop (except to let large groups of people across the road). However, I did get my token photo early one foggy morning in the autumn:

Horsetail Falls plunges into its pool right beside the roadway. The biggest hazard is getting run over by other photographers and families out for a Sunday drive (even if it’s not Sunday):

The trail to Triple Falls starts in this area, but I enjoyed photographing the trail more than the falls; dappled sunlight was the attraction:

My favorite hike (so far) is the trail to Elowah Falls, which begins at Ainsworth State Park just before the historic highway merges with frantic traffic on I-84. The gentle trail winds through a relatively young forest, and then drops down to the base of the falls. Shown here are two photos of sections of the trail, taken in different years and with different media (film and sensors). That the colors don’t exactly match may be due to several factors: different moisture content in the environment, film versus digital, and most importantly, different processing of the digital and scanned photos. It’s a real challenge trying to remember just what the place that you photographed several days or weeks earlier really looked like. That’s one of the biggest problems I have when trying to faithfully reproduce the scene that I experienced.

In the fall, before the rains come in earnest, many of the falls slow to a trickle. Such was the case with Elowah Falls barely able to keep one boulder wet. However, the surrounding foliage was most impressive, especially in light fog:

I ended this November, 2010, trip by continuing on to Walla Walla in the late afternoon. Zipping along I-84 towards Biggs, I was captivated by the forms of the hills on the Washington side of the Columbia River. Once I reach Biggs, I doubled back on an access road that paralleled the freeway, and I was able to get my last photo of the Columbia Gorge. Many of my photos were taken on film, and those will take time to have processed before I’m able to post them.

I lived in Olympia, located at the southern end of Puget Sound in western Washington, for many years when I worked for the Department of Fish and Wildlife. Olympia has a number of great photographic opportunities nearby. These include Mount Rainier (2 hours away), several creek drainages on the east side of the Olympics (beginning 45 minutes away), Pacific Ocean beaches (beginning about 2 hours away), the Hoh Rainforest (2.5 hours away), Second Beach and Rialto Beach (about 3 hours away), trails in the North Cascades (about 3.5 hours away), Mount St. Helens (about 2 hours away), the Columbia Gorge (about 3 hours away), the varied terrain and basalt cliffs of eastern Washington (beginning about 3 hours away), and many other areas I haven’t mentioned.

Unfortunately, western Washington is also known for its winter rain, which arrives in October and doesn’t leave until May or June (at least that’s what it felt like to me). While there may be some storms that come in off the Pacific and leave large amounts of rain, much of the rain in western Washington comes in the form of a light sprinkle that might go on for days or even weeks. Bad weather often creates great photographic opportunities, but those are not as appealing when one is struggling to keep cameras and lenses dry. Dark, gray days that last for weeks before a glimmer of sun is seen can weigh on a person.

When I retired in 2008, I decided I had had enough of the rain, and I wanted to settle down in an area where the word “rain” was heard much less. I went to high school and college in Walla Walla, located in the extreme southeast corner of Washington, and that’s the community I chose.

The weather in Walla Walla is absolutely wonderful: hot and dry in the summer, perfect t-shirt weather in the spring and fall, and cold with occasional snow in the winter. It just never seems to rain. When it does, the rain often comes at night and then quickly leaves. I enjoy that aspect of eastern Washington immensely.

But Walla Walla is also surrounded by wheat fields and seemingly little else. I’ve gotten some great photos of rolling, frost-covered, fog-shrouded hills in the winter, and beautiful, green fields in the spring (especially in the Palouse region located about 1.5 hours north). I’ve discovered some cemeteries of the early pioneers, and the wheat harvest has big machines combining the hillsides, so there are possibilities for some human-related landscape photography as well. Unfortunately, I feel like I’ve run out of interesting places to photograph after having been here only a year, and I keep returning to the same landscapes.

I miss the diversity I had in western Washington. For months I’ve been struggling with a single question: Is the amount of winter rain in western Washington worth tolerating so that I can have many places close by where photography has been so enjoyable, or do I live in the wonderful weather of eastern Washington and save my photography for extended, multi-day or even multi-week trips to interesting locations (something I can do now that I’m retired)?

I don’t yet have an answer, and the slow economy and poor housing market have further reduced my opportunity to make a change if that’s what I choose. Perhaps another year will help shine a brighter light on the best place for a landscape photographer like me to live.

I just returned from an early-October trip to Puget Sound. Having moved from Olympia at the southern end of Puget Sound a year ago, it was wonderful to be back in some of my favorite areas. Because it was early October, color was good in some areas but a little early in others. My first destination was Sunrise at Mount Rainier National Park, as it was scheduled to close for the winter in about a week.

I wanted some photographs that were a little different than those I’ve taken in the past at Sunrise, so I was on the trail in the early-morning darkness. A flashlight and ignorance about the possibility of bears or mountain lions were all that were required.

The first morning had clear skies. The very early light, especially light that hasn’t really shown up on the horizon (at least what can be seen), still illuminates the white top of Rainier. It’s especially nice in those early hours because the sky remains a dark, blue-black color that contrasts so nicely with Rainier. As the sun rises, stars begin to wink out, and the sky gradually acquires more blue and less contrast with the mountain. It’s a wonderful time of day, but one has to get up early to enjoy it.

As the morning continued, I looked over my shoulder and saw a very thin crescent moon rising ahead of the sun. This was the day before a New Moon. I walked back down the trail to find a good foreground composition that framed the crescent moon. An outline of the entire moon can barely be distinguished.

I tried this again the second morning (having slept in my camper in the parking lot), but clouds had come over and dashed my chances for a repeat of the previous morning but at an even earlier hour. Nevertheless, the clouds and other dark forms surrounding the peak made for great long exposures and compositions that are less frequently photographed.

The forecast was for rain and snow, and I didn’t want to be driving on icy mountain roads, so I left Rainier and continued on to Lake Quinault and Kestner Creek on the Olympic Peninsula. Kestner Creek is a favorite area, especially in the spring when the ferns have nearly finished uncoiling, and again in the fall when the leaves have fallen. I’m always looking for aesthetically pleasing compositions amid the tangle of moss-draped limbs of the old maple that flourish there.

A herd of elk reside in this area. They often congregate in the large, grassy area in front of the ranger station on the north side of the lake (where the Kestner Creek nature trail is located). One one trip I had watched them in the very early hours, and as the sun came up they wandered slowly into the forest. When I was on the nature trail, the entire herd ran about 50 feet in front of me, splashed through the wetland, and then stopped on the other side to look back at me as if to say, “We dare you to walk through that water to get to us.”

On this trip, the elk came out in the evening. I just drove a short distance down the entrance road, parked, rolled down the window, and rested my 500mm lens on a sweatshirt draped over the open window. I probably could have gotten out and set up the tripod, but I didn’t want to take the chance of spooking the elk (although they are quite used to people). There were three bulls that were very interested in the cows, but the females would have nothing to do with them. I watched and photographed for about an hour. It was dark enough that it was difficult to get the shutter speed I wanted, even at ISO 800. Of the photos I took, I liked the bull elk walking in front of an old maple; relative age was something the two had in common.

After leaving the Lake Quinault area, I traveled to Second Beach and camped in the small parking lot that night. I was up at 3:30 a.m. and on the trail by 4:15, hoping to get some very early, pre-dawn photographs as I had done at Rainier. It’s only a 0.7 mile walk from the trailhead through the forest to the beach, but it was pitch black at that time of night. At the beach, the trail ends at a very large pile of drift logs that have to be negotiated to reach the sand. Doing this at night when frost or dew covers the logs can be hazardous. Whenever I’m alone (which is quite often), I take extra precautions to get from point A to point B safely. Once on the sand, it was so dark that I could hear but not see the surf, stars were still in the sky, and I could barely see the outline of the offshore rocks. The 30-second exposures that I took allowed more light and showed more detail than I could see with my eyes. The trick is to allow enough light to make a photograph, but not so much light that night is turned into day.

As the dawn progressed, the sun cast a pink color to the clouds, and a long exposure showed some movement in the clouds.

After the morning at Second Beach, I drove a short distance to Rialto Beach for sunset. I think photography at Rialto is best for the trees adjacent to the beach, especially at sunset, but I enjoyed the setting sun behind a large thunderhead on the distant horizon. The longest lens I had with me was a 70-200mm with a 1.4 multiplier. A 300mm or 500mm might have been better, but perhaps this broad perspective has its own merits.

On the way back to eastern Washington, I drove again through Mount Rainier National Park, but the best colors were not yet revealing themselves. I continued over Chinook Pass, where the cottonwoods were bright yellow (and very photogenic) but the larches were just a greenish-yellow, still too early for their equally bright yellow color. That usually comes toward the end of October. That’s another trip.

Photography in eastern Washington is especially popular in the spring when a patchwork of wheat fields turns various shades of green and yellow, while fallow fields remain brown. Watercourses, lone trees or small clumps of trees, and farmhouses dot the landscape and break up the grid patterns of the fields. Over all of this the undulating topography gives rise to highlights and shadows, especially when the sun is low on the horizon. This is a great time for photography, and Steptoe Butte is justifiably famous for the perspective it provides over the Palouse, perhaps the best-known area for growing wheat in Washington State.

As spring turns to summer, the colors become a more uniform gold, and in August the harvest begins. Fleets of combines and trucks roll over the hills, squadrons of raptors circle overhead looking for an easy meal of displaced mice and voles, and the grain is removed in a matter of weeks.

So what does a photographer do when the waves of grain are reduced to stubble? This was my first season of harvest, and although I initially despaired over the change brought about by the harvest, I quickly found another subject to photograph in the fields: the spoils. Combines and truck had scoured every inch of the planted landscape, and they left trails. Patterns in the stubble. Sometimes these patterns were chaotic and not very appealing, but in other areas I found simple to semi-abstract patterns that had appeal to me as something to photograph. Sometimes clouds in the sky complimented the patterns on the ground, and those were special days to be out with a camera. Late August and early September became a season to look for patterns across the harvested landscape.

Departure  The zig-zag of several tracks gave me a vision of  a race up the hillside to be the first to launch off into the unknown.  The appearance of a single cloud that filled the blue space really made this photo for me. [Yes, this is a pre-harvest photo, but I liked it so much I wanted to include it here.]

Bat Clouds. High cirrus clouds form a bat-like appearance over a bright, harvested hillside. The brightness is due, I believe, to the shiny cuticle that remains on the outside of each segment of wheat stubble. At some angles to the sun, portions of the field can appear to be white, and I don’t find this to be very appealing; I usually try to add a tint of yellow back into those areas.

Furrowed Hills Intersecting hills with different harvest patterns make for a nice visual contrast.

Cirrus and Furrows Wispy cirrus clouds contrast with a heavily furrowed hillside. All of these had to be photographed from an established roadway to respect private property rights. There is always a concern of fires being started in the dry stubble (as well as in the wheat fields just prior to harvest) by hot exhaust pipes, sparks, or other human sources, so I did not trespass on any portions of a field.

Duet The regular turnings of trucks or combines lets the field become a dance floor and the tracks have recorded the dance. A deer trail can be seen going nearly straight up the hillside.

Contrarian The long diagonal of a truck that negotiated a hillside leaves a track that goes against the grain, which in my mind was contrarian in nature — hence, the title. Part of the fun of finding these patterns is identifying emotions, actions, or other human attributes in the patterns, much as we lie on a hillside and see shapes of animals, buildings, and such in the clouds drifting overhead.

Brave vs Timid One truck went on while another turned around (perhaps to empty a combine back up the hill). This conjured up a picture of a “brave” truck continuing on while a “timid” truck turned back.

Wandering Track Some tracks crossed the soft earth of a fallow field, as this one looking like it didn’t quite know where to go.

Harvested Ridges Strong directional light and a rolling topography can create an interesting landscape in the remains of a harvested field.

Corduroy Landscape The harvest patterns of the hillside in the foreground reminded me of corduroy fabric.

Former Waves of Grain A rolling topography, telephoto lens to compress the view, and areas of green beginning to grow along the harvested rows make for interesting patterns in the landscape.

I was amazed at how quickly these hillsides lose these features. Some hillsides are disced to return the stubble to the earth, others are simply beaten flat by a process that I don’t understand, and still other hillsides take on new growth because the weather at this time of year is still warm and rains occasionally sweep the landscape. The search for patterns in the remains of the harvest, like the harvest itself, has to be done relatively quickly. However, before too long the fields will be planted (more patterns) and new plants will begin to emerge (still more patterns), and the process never stops. A photographer has a good part of eastern Washington (and many other states as well) to be looking for these abstracts and patterns in fields that are planted and harvested.

What’s the best shape for a photograph: a square or a rectangle? How do you see the world: in squares or rectangles?

I’ve always photographed with cameras that produce rectangles. 35mm film has an aspect ratio of 2:3 (i.e., two units in one direction and 3 units in the other direction), as do many digital cameras. My Pentax 645 is a little more towards square, with an aspect ratio of 3:4, and my former Mamiya 7II and Pentax 67 were closer still with an aspect ratio of 6:7. The large format camera that I once used was also close to a square, with a 4:5 aspect ratio.

Some digital cameras have aspect ratios that can be changed, so they may be 2:3, 4:5, or even square (1:1).

Panorama cameras will have one length that is significantly longer than the other, with common aspect ratios of 1:2, 1:3, or something even more extreme.

Because I’ve always seen the world in rectangles, and because nearly every camera I’ve ever used has produced rectangular images, I think it’s time to shake up my world view and look at the world in squares. To do that, I’ve purchased what may be the world’s most famous “square” camera: a Hasselblad. I want to challenge myself when I view a landscape by looking at it more closely and from a different perspective. I think this will help me appreciate landscapes even more.

That said, I don’t think any one aspect ratio is perfect or even preferred for all types of landscape compositions. Depending on the elements, one aspect ratio might express the essence of a place in an aesthetically pleasing manner better than a different aspect ratio. In the past, the 2:3 aspect ratio has worked best for me. In fact, I tended to dislike 4:5 and 6:7 because they were too square, and my eyes just didn’t naturally view the world like this. So what better way to shake myself than to go to a full 1:1 square!

As I look a photos taken by other photographers and posted on forums like photo.net and fredmiranda.com, I think most have chosen the best aspect ratio (and this is aided by the use of zoom lens that can more easily find the best composition while looking through the viewfinder). However, I’ve been having fun thinking about other possible aspect ratios of some of these photos. Some rectangular photos I’ve viewed could, in my opinion, be better shown as squares, and some square photos I think would look better if cropped to a rectangle. Of course, this is what many photographers do when they work on an image by cropping to what seems to be the best aspect ratio for a given image.

It’s a bit different, though, when looking through a viewfinder that is square when nearly every experience in 45 years of picture taking (except for a very brief stint with a Rolleiflex) has seen nothing but rectangles. I want to find images that are initially best represented by squares, rather than producing a square image after the fact by cropping a rectangle.

In addition, I think it will be fun to use a camera system that has a very long history and has been used by some of the world’s best photographers (not that I have any illusions of becoming part of that group!). It’s also the camera that “went to the moon.” Finally, the model I’ve chosen (501cm) is strictly mechanical; there’s not a battery to be found anywhere. The lenses I’ll be using include a 50mm wide, 80mm normal, and 180mm moderate telephoto.

The mechanics of this camera are remarkable. This is the first time in many years that I’ve had to read the manual carefully just to manage the basic operations of taking a single photograph.

It’s a very different approach to photography, one that I think is entirely appropriate as I “celebrate” my 62nd birthday (and the start of social security!). What a great time and way to learn something new and to challenge my artistic vision.

The Palouse area of eastern Washington is a photographer’s mecca, especially in the spring.  Miles of gently rolling hills, multicolored fields, and scattered farmhouses are the main attractions.

Traditionally, the Palouse region was defined as the fertile hills and prairies north of the Snake River which separated it from Walla Walla Country, extending north along the Washington and Idaho border to just south of Spokane, and centered on the Palouse River in Washington.  Sometimes the Palouse is defined more broadly and refers to the entire wheat-growing region, including the Walla Walla Country, the Camas Prairie of Idaho, the Big Bend region of the central Columbia River Plateau and other smaller agricultural areas in Asotin County.

The picturesque rolling hills that characterize the Palouse Prairie were formed during the ice ages.  Silt, sand, and clay were blown in from glacial outwash plains to the west and south to form the Palouse.  It’s this rich soil that makes the area so productive for agriculture.  This productivity was discovered during the 1880s, and by 1890 nearly all of the Palouse had been converted from short, perennial grasslands to wheat farming.  The native prairie is one of the most endangered ecosystems in the U.S.; only about 1% of the original prairie still exists.

The last week of May and the first two weeks of June are the best times to photograph the green hills.  I’ve been to the area during mid-May and had very good luck with the green and yellow of early growth.  Early morning and late afternoons are the best times as the low sun casts shadows of the rolling hills across the landscape.  In early July the hills will turn golden with ripening wheat.  The harvest starts in mid-August and continues into September.  Even the winter months can produce wonderful photographic opportunities, when snow, frost, and fog blanket the area.

Besides the rolling hills, the many farms, old homesteads, grain elevators, and single trees or small clumps of trees amid open fields and hillsides provide great views for the camera.

Long-time veterans have their favorite areas.  I simply get a Washington State Atlas & Gazetteer and follow the backroads.  This can lead to some wonderful discoveries.  Steptoe Butte State Park is the highest point in the area and offers a commanding view of the landscape; it’s locate NE of the town of Steptoe and SW of the town of Oaksdale.  If you want some guidance, some photographers offer workshops in the Palouse.  I can recommend Alan Caddey, who has been exploring the Palouse for many years and who is an outstanding photographer.

A strong note of caution about the roads:  The dirt roads of the Palouse often consist of clay, and they become completely impassable when it rains.  DO NOT attempt to drive on these roads when rain is threateneing, during a rainstorm, or just after a rainstorm; you will get stuck, even in a 4WD Hummer.  These same roads get dusty in the summer, and that can be a concern to digital shooters who like to change lenses frequently.

There are motels in the towns of Moscow (Idaho), Pullman, and Colfax.  I like to travel in a camper on a pickup truck (very comfortable and very mobile).  The city of Colfax allows RVs to stay overnight in a city park on the north end of town.  It’s free of charge, and it’s something I greatly appreciate.  Kamiak Butte (which is either a county park or state park — I get conflicting information), located SE of the town of Palouse and directly north of Pullman, offers camping, but they close and lock the gate until 7:00 a.m., which greatly affects early morning exploration.  I wish more park managers were also photographers.  However, there are great views from Kamiak Butte, and it’s worth at least a night’s stay.

Kestner Creek is a wonderful, little-known area on the north side of Lake Quinault in the Quinault Rainforest that is great for photographing large, moss-draped maples and sword fern.  With over 12 feet of rain each year, it’s no wonder the area is so green.

While there are many photographic opportunities in this part of the Olympic Peninsula, Kestner Creek is special to me.  It’s easy to reach, the loop trail and great photographs start right at the parking area, and, most of all, the trees and vegetation are spectacular.

The nature trail loop begins at the parking area west of the ranger station.  After a short boardwalk, the trail enters the forest.  It soon divides, and either direction is fine.  This portion of the trail is the beginning of the most photogenic area.  Large, old maples draped with moss are all around.  In some areas, large expanses of sword fern form the understory.  I’ve contemplated taking an eight-foot stepladder just to get a better perspective of the carpet of ferns in some areas.

As the trail turns north, it passes a large wetland, and views from either end are great.  Maples lean out over the wetland, and the open area of the wetland allows for good shots of trees and ferns on the other side.  There are a few more photogenic views after the trail passes over a wooden bridge (which makes a worthwhile subject in its own right).  However, while the trail continues through the forest to the Kestner homestead, the best areas of trees have already been seen.  I would recommend concentrating on the area around the wetland and between the wetland and the trailhead.

A shorter route to the homestead (which I did not find too interesting for photos) begins at a second trailhead in the parking area on the north side of the ranger station.

The best time for photography at Kestner Creek is mid-May when the sword ferns are nearly completely uncurled and before the mosquitoes have made their summer appearance.  Mosquitoes will show up toward the end of May.  Autumn photography at Kestner Creek, despite the abundance of deciduous maples, is hit or miss because the amount of fall color is highly variable and dependent on summer moisture.  I’ve mostly missed.

I prefer to photograph forests when the sky is overcast, especially if the clouds are high and relatively thin.  It can also be good if there is a light rain, as long as you have means to keep your gear dry and lens free of water drops.  A polarizing filter makes a huge difference in the forest interior.  In my experience, photography in a relatively dense forest is more difficult when the sky is clear and sunlight is streaming through the trees.  At these times, the range of light is too great for film or sensors.  However, selective compositions or HDR techniques can overcome areas of high contrast, and great compositions can still be found.

On one trip I arrived at the parking area well before sunrise.  Elk frequent the meadow in front of the ranger station, which stands a couple hundred yards back from the main road.  I watched them from my vehicle, but it was too dark to try any photographs.  As it got lighter, the elk gradually drifted into the safety of the forest.  I began my walk on the trail, and it wasn’t long before the entire herd of about 30 elk ran across the trail about 40 feet in front of me, splashed through the shallow wetland, and then stopped and looked back at me from the other side as if to say, “Go ahead, we dare you to get your feet wet.”  This is an area where you want to have a telephoto lens if you like to photograph large wildlife; elk are fairly common, and the best time to see them is early morning.

Access to Kestner Creek starts at Highway 101 just north of the small community of Amanda Park (about 37 miles north of Hoquiam).  Turn onto the North Shore Road and travel about five miles to the Quinault Rain Forest Ranger Station on the left side of the road.

For comprehensive information about the Quinault Rainforest, click here.

I’m struck by the extent to which beautiful landscape photographs are often “enhanced” with significant color saturation, placement of an out-of-place moon, or similar digital alteration. With respect to color, the attitude seems to be “if a little bit is good, then even more will be that much better.”

I tend to look for aesthetically pleasing compositions that capture an essence of the landscape I’m experiencing. That tends toward “classical” rather than “odd” or “unusual.” It’s my personal opinion that all of us take much for granted, that we often become bored or jaded with the usual (it’s everywhere, all the time!), and that many therefore often feel the need to go beyond the usual in order to photograph something interesting or meaningful. That’s not where I’m at. I thoroughly enjoy experiencing the “usual,” and I try to present it in a composition that captures the beauty of the usual. That’s also the basis for my lack of interest in extensive post-processing that creates scenes that my eyes did not and could not see (although some of my images, especially the long exposures, are exceptions to this statement). I appreciate the visions and skills of those who can create such scenes in a dramatic and mature way, but my own interest lies elsewhere. These different approaches to photography simply reflect, in my opinion, the diversity of our life experiences and personalities. However, I feel a degree of sadness for those who scoff at traditional landscape scenes, saying they’ve been done too often and are therefore boring photographic subjects. In my mind, the essence of living in the natural world, for the very short time that we have, is in these landscapes.

Bosque del Apache in New Mexico has a well-deserved reputation among photographers as a great place to photograph wintering waterfowl, cranes, and other wildlife.  Another spring hot spot that is much less known but well worth a visit is Freezeout Lake in north-central Montana.

Snow Geese heading from their wintering grounds in the southern states use Freezeout Lake as a rest stop on the journey to their breeding grounds in the Arctic.  Several hundred thousand snow geese and around 10,000 tundra swans (as well a pintails, mallards, goldeneyes, other waterfowl, raptors, and many passerines – more than 200 species total) can be found here, with peak numbers occurring at the end of March,

I drove to Freezeout on March 17, 2010, thinking that the mild winter and early spring would have the birds arriving earlier than usual.  I was so wrong.  The lakes/ponds that constitute Freezeout Lake Management Area (managed by Montana Fish, Wildlife, and Parks) were still mostly frozen, and the birds numbered “only a few thousand.”

There are a series of roads and “human rest stops” throughout the interior of the management area.  I chose to camp at the westernmost site, furthest from the highway and the main access road. Most of the roads are graveled and passable during wet weather.  However, a secondary access road (not marked on the highway) is composed of ungraveled clay and is not passable in even the slightest rain.  Heed the warning signs!

A few years ago I ignored the signs during a light rain, and I ended up stuck on this backroad.  It was well below freezing at night, so I just figured I would wait for the road to freeze before making my way to safety.  At 2:00 a.m. I poked my head out of my camper and saw a weather front coming in from the north.  I didn’t know if it was a warm or cold front, but the worst possible scenario, in my mind, was increasing temperatures and more rain – I could be out there for days.  I decided to give it my best shot.  Several thrill-seekers in 4WD vehicles had passed by me during the day, creating rough ruts in the road.  I hit these ruts, and for about 300 yards my wheels were spinning faster than the truck was moving, the truck bounced crazily (if I got thrown out of the ruts, I would certainly end up in one of the water-filled ditches on either side of the road), and I had a death-grip on the steering wheel.  I can’t describe the relief I felt when I crossed over the cattle guard and hit gravel.  Never, never mess with clay roads (known locally as gumbo).

Camping at Freezeout Lake during the peak of the migration is an experience that absolutely must not be missed.  At night I was the only person for miles, and in the darkness the constant calling of thousands of snow geese (depending on the campsite, they may be close or distant) along with the yelping wails of coyotes calling back and forth had a primeval feeling to it, far removed from the sounds of civilization that we experience most of our days.

The photos that most of us want occur near sunrise during “take-off” when the geese head out to the surrounding fields to eat.  The constant calling of the birds suddenly increases in volume and intensity (saying “get your cameras ready”), and in a few seconds the birds ascend and begin to fill the sky.  Depending on the distance to the flocks, cloud conditions, and the flock’s position relative to the rising sun, photos can vary from huge masses of birds, detailed photos of individuals or small groups, to distant silhouettes.  During the day, birds will come and go, and this is the best time to try your bird-in-flight photography skills.

Because of the distance, I used my 500mm f/4 lens most of the time.  During the day, especially if the sky is clear, a 400mm f/5.6 or 300mm f/4 (in the Canon family) may be most useful.  Lens choice will be based on distance and the composition that one desires.

Hunting is allowed at Freezeout, and as a result the waterfowl tends to be more skittish than in areas where hunting is prohibited and visited only by birdwatchers.  This makes longer lenses more useful.

Birds are certainly not the only photographic subject at Freezeout Lake.  The “Big Sky Country” is famous for sunsets, and the cloud patterns and rural landscape are a great combination.

Freezeout Lake Wildlife Management Area is located in north central Montana 40 miles west of Great Falls along US Highway 89 between Fairfield and Choteau. There are turnouts and parking areas to area from US Highway 89 and from Frontage road from Fairfield year-round.  Interior roads are open to vehicles from March 15 to the beginning of waterfowl hunting season in the fall.  Dike-system roads are closed to vehicles, but they are great for hiking to get closer to the birds.

Generally the peak of the migration (according to refuge managers) is March 28.  Call 406-467-2646 for an automated waterfowl update.  For more web-based information, go here or here.